Come, We Must Return
by Elle-Vee16
Summary: "Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you!" Ever wonder how that journey back up to the surface must have gone? I imagine it'd be something like this...


**A/N: Sort of in the same vein as "Don Juan Triumphant vs The Monkey", since part of me wants to continue that but the more sensible side of me knows not to. So here, in case you might've wondered what happened on the Most Awkward Boatride Ever. Also I got to have fun explaining things, so.**

* * *

Silence.

A long silence.

A long, awkward silence.

A cough. The rustle of a dressing gown as its wearer shifted positions. The sound of a pole cutting through water. What were two near-perfect strangers supposed to _say_ to one another in a situation like this? It was going to be a long journey across the lake and up four stories back to the prima donna's dressing room, _especially_ if Christine Daaé and the Angel of Music - no, scratch that, the _Phantom of the Opera - _weren't feeling up to small talk.

The Phantom cleared his throat. Maybe he _did_ want to talk. Christine didn't know what to say. _"By the way, M'sieur Phantom, sorry for ripping off your mask. But you shouldn't have expected any less from your kidnap victim." _That wouldn't work. And if they were going to get technical, she realised bitterly, she wasn't even a kidnap victim at all. She had, after all, gone with him willingly. But it really wasn't fair, she decided. His bloody voice was hypnotic. Christine made a mental note to remember that fact. Surely no good would come from him being able to bewitch her through song.

The Phantom cleared his throat again. Alright, so Christine couldn't blame him for wanting to converse with her - after all, she was supposedly the love of his life. And she certainly didn't plan on getting close enough to him for _another_ conversation. She pitited him, of course, but... well, there was no way that he was good for her mental health.

"This is a lovely throw pillow," she casually remarked, picking up one of the cushions that had served as her bed last night. "Is this real Chinese silk?"

"Oh, stop that," the Phantom snapped, though it was more wary than irritated. "You and I both know that there are more important matters to discuss."

"Indeed. What the _hell_ was with that mannequin last night?!"

"Christine - "

"Was that supposed to be _me? _My eyes are _green, _you know. Not brown."

"I tried, alright?"

"I don't think you tried at all." Christine stared at the black water ahead, crossing her arms and pouting.

Another awkward silence. Then:

"How did it _move?_"

"What?"

"The mannequin. She - it - moved."

Christine didn't even have to look behind her to know that the Phantom was giving her a very confused look.

"It didn't move," he said, tone verging on indignance and - was that _longing? _Christine wrinkled her nose. She didn't want to consider why he might want a moving doll of her.

"Yes, it did," she insisted as the boat reached the shore and the Phantom moved to help her out. It was mostly out of necessity that she took his hand-and, well, she didn't want to crush the man _too_ much. "It moved, and that's all I remember before waking up." He offered his arm; she kept hers crossed tightly under her bosom. There needed to be more boundaries between them, she decided.

"You must have had a slight hallucination," he said honestly. "I'm quite sure you fainted from lack of oxygen. The atmosphere down here takes a bit of getting used to."

Christine snorted. "So you bring the woman you love to your house that lacks decent air, make her sing until she's light-headed, then pull out a mannequin of her in a wedding dress that apparently _doesn't_ move. Clearly you haven't bothered to become up-to-date on the protocol for courtships."

"Well, what was I supposed to _do?!" _The Phantom asked desperately. "You were going to go off with that boy, and I - I panicked! I wanted it to be a night for _us,_ especially after your triumph in _Hannibal_, and I wasn't about to let all of my planning go to waste..."

Christine reached out, gripping him by the wrist. She felt the man freeze and tense under her touch. "Alright, alright," she relented. "I understand. And did things go according to plan?"

"I - no." He looked away.

(Actually, his plan had been this: bring Christine to his home, win her over a bit with some music, show her his Mirror Bride, and then - upon her being incredibly flattered that he was considerate enough to find a dress for her - get down on bent knee and tell her that even though he wasn't the Angel of Music, he still loved her, and would she please do him the honour of becoming his wife, and then she would be very fluttery and perhaps shed a few joyous tears before kissing him tenderly and agreeing to marry him, and afterward they would spend the remainder of their days composing and singing for their own enjoyment. Of course, he hadn't stopped to think that Christine's reactions might not be what he expected.)

"I thought not." Christine paused as they rounded their third flight of stairs, only vaguely aware of the ache that was beginning in her legs. She hadn't noticed the number of steps last night. But that was inconsequential - she couldn't stop thinking about her actions an hour ago. What with ripping off his mask, and all. She wasn't sorry for doing it, but she supposed she somewhat regretted her reaction. And though she really didn't _want_ to apologise, it was the right thing to do, and she hadn't failed to notice that karma was at least a little legitimate.

However, she found that she was saved when they arrived at her dressing room mirror. Apologies could wait.

"Here we are," the Phantom said quietly. Christine pursed her lips, peering up at him through the dim light that came from the light on the other side of the glass. He certainly looked sad to see her go.

"Thank you for escorting me," she replied, perfectly polite. And though she would have liked nothing more than to run from him as fast as possible, she felt she had to make _something_ right between them. "And - I'm sorry about earlier. Reacting the way I did to your - well. You know."

The Phantom tilted his head. "Why are _you_ apologising? It's not like I've ever had any different."

God. Christine hadn't wanted more of a reason to pity him. The last thing she needed was to go soft. Clearing her throat a little and pinching her palm, she tried to look anywhere but his eyes. "Which makes my reaction even worse. I suppose. Um. I never caught your name."

Now it was the Phantom who went about awkwardly fiddling with his cufflinks and straightening his hat. "Right. I don't seem to have one. No one ever bothered to name me, and I haven't gotten around to picking one for myself."

_That_ was painful. Nodding faintly, Christine put her hand on the glass, sliding it back a little. "I - I'm sorry to hear that. Sorry I asked, I - I should go." Stepping through, she was about to run for it again when she felt his fingers on her wrist.

"Next time we meet - perhaps I shall have a name. I'll give it a bit of thought. You needn't call me 'Angel' or 'Phantom' forever."

Smiling tightly, Christine nodded again. "Until then." He released her, and she departed.

However, the next time they met, Christine never _did_ get a chance to hear the name he had picked before she left forever with Raoul.

_Erik._

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**A/N: ...OH GOD I THINK I MIGHT HAVE MADE IT HURT.**


End file.
